


keep your eyes on me

by Anonymous



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Coming Untouched, Dom Eddie, Inspired by Fanart, Light Bondage, M/M, Mostly Porn But A Little Bit Of Feelings, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, They're In Love Your Honor, Tied Up Richie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:21:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23776009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Hey,” Richie says when they break apart, though his voice apparently has trouble keeping up with his brain when Eddie’s still grinding down on him. “You remember—mm, fuck—that thing we said we were— we were gonna try?”Or, a little bit of PWP, written for an incredible fanart linked in the notes.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 10
Kudos: 231
Collections: Anonymous





	keep your eyes on me

**Author's Note:**

> i posted this anonymously so my ao3 subscribers cannot perceive me (and a lot of them are probably minors anyway), but like, if you willingly clicked on this after reading the tags i'm over at iguessyouregonnamissthepantyraid here/tumblr, and @slsustek on twitter 🤙
> 
> basically i saw [this incredible nfsw art](https://twitter.com/cytakigawa/status/1247119726561693698?s=19) and then [this tweet thread](https://twitter.com/cytakigawa/status/1251013093943058432?s=19) by the same user, both of which reached deep into the part of my soul that's labeled "huh. didn't know i was so into that. interesting" and so here we are, 4k words later
> 
> enjoy your pornography, everyone!

As soon as they step through the door into their apartment, Richie’s on him, crowding him back against the wall and drawing a pleased little noise from the back of Eddie’s throat. Richie’s a fucking _force_ when he wants to be, but more often without even trying to be, all six-foot-so-fucking-much of him with his broad shoulders and his big arms and his _hands_ — God, Eddie loves his fucking hands — on either side of Eddie’s face, angling him up for a kiss that seems caught somewhere between desperation and the want to drag it out, to make it last.

“Mm,” Eddie hums into his mouth, smiling through the kiss and hooking his fingers through Richie’s belt loops to pull him closer. When Richie breaks away, only to duck down and plant his face in Eddie’s neck, Eddie breathes through the little shivers that wrack through him every time Richie nips at the skin under his jaw, along the column of his throat, at his collarbone when Richie manages to loosen Eddie’s tie and unbutton the top few buttons of his dress shirt. He sucks a sloppy hickey into the skin there, in the V formed by the opening of Eddie’s shirt, and all of Eddie’s breath leaves him at once.

“You—” Eddie pants, pulling Richie’s tucked dress shirt and undershirt out and rucking it up his back, cold palms on Richie’s warm warm warm skin, “you taste like— fucking sweet and sour sauce.”

It’s true; Richie’s mouth still carries hints of the post-show dinner and drinks they had. Sweet and sour sauce, honey, a little bit of gin.

Richie hums in agreement, his teeth on Eddie’s earlobe so that it sends a shock of pleasure all the way through him from the crown of his head straight down to his groin, and that’s about all Eddie can take before he’s shoving Richie back, hands fisted in his shirt, walking him clumsily backward until the back of Richie’s knees hit the couch and he goes falling back onto his ass.

“Not fuckin’ fair,” Richie murmurs, tugging him down until he’s straddling Richie’s waist, “wearing that tonight, I couldn’t focus on my show, you _dick—”_

Eddie rests his elbows on Richie’s shoulders and threads his fingers through his hair, fisting the strands and tugging his head back a bit, reveling in the punched out sound it draws from him, in the way his voice abruptly cuts off, in the way his pupils are blown out so wide that the irises are just thin slivers of blue-gray centered on him.

“Is that a problem?” Eddie whispers into his mouth, one eyebrow raised.

“Nuh-uh,” Richie manages, licking his lips. “No, siree.”

“Thought so,” Eddie murmurs. “And you still did great even _with_ the distraction anyway.”

Richie’s hands are fumbling with Eddie’s belt, clumsy and slow, since most of his attention is directed up at Eddie’s face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, tugging Richie’s head back a little further and ducking down to deal some payback for all the marks he left on _Eddie’s_ neck — that’s gonna be a bitch and a half to cover up when he goes to work on Monday, not that Eddie actually minds, per se. He grinds down on Richie’s lap, biting a bruise into the skin between his chin and his Adam’s apple, biting his way up and over toward Richie’s ear, and then he whispers, “You did really great tonight, Rich.”

Richie _shakes_ for that. He’s abandoned the effort of unbuckling Eddie’s belt, instead running his hands up and down Eddie’s sides, gripping his hips a little tighter every time Eddie nips at his skin, and now he loops both arms around Eddie’s waist to pull them flush together, Eddie’s stomach to Richie’s chest, and he’s tipping his head all the way back to make the angle work so they can still make out like this, so Eddie can run his tongue over Richie’s teeth and suck on his bottom lip.

“Hey,” Richie says when they break apart, though his voice apparently has trouble keeping up with his brain when Eddie’s still grinding down on him. “You remember— _mm, fuck—_ that thing we said we were— we were gonna try?”

Eddie’s eyebrows lift, eyes widening even as another surge of want has him grinding down again into the hard press of Richie’s dick through his slacks; it’s fucking instinct, muscle memory, whatever. He can’t help it.

“Yeah?” Eddie pants. “You want to?”

Richie licks his lips again, dragging his teeth over the bottom lip like Eddie did just a few seconds ago, and he nods, cheeks flushed. “Yeah. If— if you do—”

 _“Fuck,_ Rich,” he sighs, rocking forward and crushing his lips against Richie’s one more time. After all this time, Richie still brings up things like this with a hint of embarrassment, a little bit of reluctance to admit what he wants, even if it’s something they _both_ want, so Eddie pours every ounce of enthusiasm he can into the kiss before he forces himself to pull away and swing himself off of Richie’s lap. “Yes, Rich. Yes, I fucking do.”

A breathless smile takes over Richie’s face, and he gets a hold of both the collar of Eddie’s shirt and his loosened tie, tugging him in for one more kiss.

“Mm. Turn around,” Eddie tells him, and Richie does, shimmying around on the couch until all Eddie can see is the broad expanse of his back, the curve of his spine through his dress shirt — or maybe he’s imagining that since he knows, intimately, what it looks like without the dress shirt — and Eddie works on fully undoing his tie. “Take your shirt off.”

Richie does. He makes quick work of the buttons, shedding the dress shirt off his shoulders and tossing it in a random direction so it falls in a heap on their living room floor.

“Undershirt, too, Eds?”

Eddie pauses for a second, considering that. His eyes trace over the line of Richie’s shoulders, the curve of his spine — he is _definitely_ not imagining that he can see that, not now — and the way the white cotton hugs him tightly in all the right places, and he finds himself pressing the heel of his hand into his own dick through his slacks. He’s been fully hard since Richie sucked that bruise into his chest, but now, at the thought of what’s coming next, he’s verging on the cusp of hard enough to _hurt._

“No,” he decides. “The shirt can stay. Pants, though, yes.”

Richie doesn’t even question it. He doesn’t bother pulling his belt off; he just unbuckles it and pulls it all off, pants and belt all at once, and sits back down on the couch in his boxer briefs and his undershirt.

“Hands,” Eddie says, and Richie brings both hands behind his back, allowing Eddie to lightly cross his wrists and lay the tie over them. He takes his time, wrapping the tie around one wrist and then the other, looping it through as many times as the length of the tie will allow so that it’s nice and snug and comfortable, so Richie couldn’t move his wrists an inch if he wanted to. He works diligently and carefully, mimicking the knot he researched after the first time Richie brought this up, making sure it’s as safe and comfortable as possible.

When it’s done, he leans forward and kisses Richie at the center of his back. He sees Richie give the tie an experimental tug, the muscles of his upper arms flexing against the undershirt.

_Fuck._

Eddie forces some steadiness into his voice and asks, “Good? Doesn’t hurt?”

Richie hums a _nuh-uh,_ shaking his head. He flexes his fingers, wiggling them a bit, and Eddie gets himself up on his knees on the couch, leaning forward to trail his hands up Richie’s arms, over his shoulders, up his neck and into his hair.

“God, you’re fucking gorgeous like this,” Eddie says without even really thinking about it, ducking his head down to press a kiss to the side of Richie’s neck from behind. Richie says nothing to that at all, just shudders and tilts his head to give Eddie better access, and Eddie trails a hand down Richie’s back to grip at his tied wrists while he sucks another hickey into Richie’s neck.

 _“Fuck,_ Eds.”

“Okay, get up,” Eddie tells him. He needs to get his hand on his dick or he’s gonna fucking explode.

Richie gets off the couch and faces him — big fucking shoulders straining the fabric of his undershirt, big fucking dick straining the fabric of his boxer briefs, mouth open and eyes shining with that glazed over drunken look he only gets when he’s like this — and he slowly lets his legs fold under him until he’s sitting on the floor, right in front of him, knees pressed lightly into the bottom of the couch, eyes unwavering on Eddie.

Eddie gets himself comfortably settled on the couch, legs bracketing Richie where he’s sitting, and he leans forward and hooks a finger under Richie’s chin to tip his face up. Even that much makes Richie’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, a sigh ghosting across Eddie’s knuckles.

“Keep your eyes on me,” Eddie tells him.

Richie licks his lips again. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it. Then he opens his eyes, takes a breath, and nods.

Yeah, Eddie’s _definitely_ hard enough that it hurts. Fuck. He fumbles with his own belt buckle, unthreading it from his belt loops and discarding it on the couch cushions beside him. He settles back against the couch, stretches his legs out a bit, pushes his left hand up his own chest and up to his neck — light touches, fingertips grazing over sensitive skin — while with the other hand he goes down, tracing a thumb over the length of his own erection. His dick jumps a bit in response to the touch, and Richie’s eyes follow it. His mouth falls open a bit.

For once, he’s utterly fucking speechless, watching with rapt attention.

Eddie undoes another of his shirt buttons one-handed, stroking the thumb of his right hand back and forth over his dick. There’s a small wet spot forming on his pants, he can feel it, though he’s not quite sure if Richie can see it, not yet.

Either way, when Eddie slips his hand down beneath his waistband, Richie presses his lips together with the faintest little whimper, scooting forward on the floor.

“Already can’t stand it, can you?” Eddie asks, quirking a little smile, and his only answer is a shuddering sigh from Richie, because that’s really the only answer he needs. His cheeks are still flushed, eyes hazy and hungry all at once. Eddie slides his left hand under his unbuttoned dress shirt, and those eyes follow his every movement, following as he sweeps a thumb over his own nipple and lets his head fall back against the couch back, no doubt following even when Eddie’s not watching them as his right hand finally wraps around his dick and gives it a slow, _agonizingly_ slow pump inside his boxer briefs.

He reaches down with his left hand, fumbling with his pants button until it’s undone, working his right wrist against his waistband until the zipper slides down of its own accord and he can pull himself out for Richie to see, and then he brings that hand right back up again to stroke over his own chest, up his neck.

In principle, he should probably _not_ be pretending that it’s Richie’s hands stroking over him. Technically the idea is to just relax and do whatever he does when Richie’s _not_ here, to give him a show of exactly what he misses on those long nights he spends flying across the country for this show or the other, but really, that’s _exactly_ what Eddie does when Richie’s not here and he’s all worked up like this — pretend he _is_ here, imagine his big hands turning Eddie to putty as he strokes himself, picture the way he looks when he’s spread out over their mattress. So he figures it’s alright to tweak the rules a bit. A loophole.

Still, he’s not thinking much of anything outside of the pure physical sensations, when it really comes down to it. The slide of his palm over the head of his dick, getting slick with precum, the slow pump of his hand.

And he doesn’t have to picture the way Richie does anything, anyway; Richie’s sitting right here in front of him, wrapped up like a fucking present.

He tilts his head up, heavy lidded eyes focusing on Richie.

“God, fucking look at you,” he finds himself saying. “Desperate for it, huh?”

Richie gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing. He tries to scoot forward again, until Eddie realizes he’s not exactly scooting forward — he’s rocking back and forth, just a bit, just trying to get some friction between his own cock and the fabric of his underwear. It’s clearly not working, but it doesn’t really seem like Richie can help trying anyway. His shoulders go through a weird movement, upper arms tensing, and Eddie can picture clear as day how his wrists are probably twisting against the tie behind his back. He watches Eddie pumping himself, sucks on his bottom lip for a second, lets his mouth open again with a little breathless, _“Guh.”_

“So desperate for it,” Eddie repeats, his voice a low murmur as he finds a good angle and lifts his hips up into his own hand with a little groan from the back of his throat. “You look so fucking good like this, Rich. So _fucking_ desperate, so… so good, baby.”

Richie whimpers, lips pressed together as he strains against the tie, lifting one shoulder and then the other like he just can’t help trying to untie himself. His breath’s coming faster and faster, chest heaving, eyes glazed over and wider than ever. He rocks forward again with a desperate little keening noise that shoots straight through the center of Eddie’s chest and crackles down in a lightning strike path to his dick, and despite the instinct to _lean back stroke some more come on I’m so fucking close don’t stop now_ Eddie slows up, shifts himself to sitting up a little more fully. As much as he wants to finish right fucking now, this is better. It’s better to watch Richie watching him, to see the way he’s desperately trying and failing to grind against his own underwear, the way his shirt hugs his muscles as he tugs at the tie, the way he’s staring at Eddie’s dick like there’s nothing else in the world that he wants. And right now, there probably isn’t.

Eddie grins, still breathless, and watches as Richie’s rocking gets more and more urgent, as his upper arms tense and twist, as his breath comes in shorter and shorter gasps, and Eddie has enough time to think with a rush of anticipation _oh my God is he really going to—_

Richie’s mouth falls open again, this time so he can let out a cracked _ah_ and come all over the inside of his boxer briefs, shuddering from head to toe and riding it out with minute little thrusts into nothing.

“Fu-uck,” Richie breathes, sagging down, his skin flushed from the center of his chest all the way up through his shoulders and his red, red cheeks. “Fuck.”

“Hey,” Eddie says, pulling him out of it with his left hand tilting Richie’s chin up.

What he wants to say is _that was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life,_ because it was, and he’s going to be seeing that every single time he does this to himself for the foreseeable future, and the fucked stupid look on Richie’s face right now is _this_ close to sending Eddie over the edge himself.

But maybe he’s into this enough that it addles his mind, fucks up his brain-to-mouth filter, because what comes out instead is:

“I’m not done yet, Rich. Keep watching.”

Richie shudders again, dazed and fucked out and apparently still horny, if the little twitch in his boxer briefs is enough to go by.

He nods, and Eddie grabs a hold of him by the jaw, turning his face to the side so Eddie can lean forward and hunch over to kiss the side of his neck. His right hand maintains a lazy rhythm, one that he can’t help rocking his hips into, even if the angle’s a little awkward with the way he’s hunched over now. He lets go of Richie’s jaw — and Richie stays, too dazed and fucked silly and _enjoying_ this to be anything less than obedient — so that he can slide his left hand down Richie’s chest and down beneath his waistband.

“Thank you for that, baby,” Eddie whispers into the space where his jawline meets his ear, and he’s not sure whether he’s thanking him for that _fucking_ incredible image or for the wetness that meets his fingers beneath the waistband of Richie’s underwear. Either way, he slides his hand all the way down and wraps his hand around Richie’s soft dick, getting come all over his hand before he pulls his hand back out, leans back, and switches hands.

It’s a little harder to jerk off with his left, but that just means he can drag it out a little longer, when he’s not quite as deft and not quite as capable of hitting _just_ the right spot over and over and over again. He strokes, lazily at first, but with Richie’s come on his hand it makes it easier to go fast, easier to roll his hips into it and find a rhythm.

“You did so fucking good, Rich,” Eddie says, because it’s true. He sees Richie leaning forward, sees him press a distracted kiss to the inside of Eddie’s knee, his eyes still unwavering on Eddie’s dick. And he can also see, through a haze of pleasure and through heavy-lidded eyes, that Richie’s already getting hard again. Slowly, for sure, but there’s no doubt that he is. “And you’re ready for more of it already, huh?”

Richie sucks on his bottom lip, nods.

“So fucking good,” Eddie repeats, because his brain is slowly devolving into a nonsensical stream of _so good so fucking good,_ but apparently some semblance of a coherent thought stitches itself together while he’s stroking himself, or maybe everything he’s feeling comes out without any conscious effort on his part whatsoever, because then he’s saying, “Just sitting there watching me, fucking— _desperate_ for it, hungry for it… So fucking turned on that’s all you needed, huh?”

Richie nods again and whines a quiet, “Mm-hmm.”

“God,” Eddie croaks. He’s so fucking close, watching Richie there with his hands tied and his chest still heaving and his shoulders — his _fucking_ shoulders — pulling at the fabric of his shirt, his slowly rising dick prodding at the soaked fabric of his underwear. “And getting hard all over again, just for me.”

He sees it when Richie gulps.

“Y— yeah, Eds,” he manages to say, his voice punch-drunk. “Just for you.”

 _“Fuck,”_ Eddie breathes, his right hand trailing up his chest and touching wherever it wants to, because Eddie’s sure as fuck not sparing any thought for it. He rocks his hips up off the couch and into his left hand, faster, faster, faster, twisting his wrist to get a better angle, thrusting into it, pleasure building in a steady thrum at at the bottom of his stomach—

“Just for you, Eds,” Richie repeats, quiet and breathless, and he kisses the inside of Eddie’s knee again. “Always for you.”

“Fuck, _fuck,”_ Eddie sputters, _so_ fucking close, and Richie kisses at the inside of his thigh, higher up than before. When did Eddie lean his head back and close his eyes? He doesn’t remember.

“Eds,” Richie says, “can I—?”

His meaning could not be more clear. Eddie doesn’t open his eyes as he asks, “You gonna swallow it?”

 _“Fuck,_ yes. Yes. Please.”

“Come here,” Eddie says, beckoning him blindly forward with his free hand until it ends up in Richie’s hair, and he only lets go of his dick when Richie’s face is inches away from it. Richie takes him in his mouth with fucking _enthusiasm,_ even without his hands to work with, and Eddie threads his fingers into Richie’s hair and thrusts into his hot press of his mouth once, twice, three times—

— and Eddie’s toes curl as he comes, hips jerking, a loud cry ripping its way out of him that he doesn’t even have the wherewithal to be embarrassed about. Richie swallows it down, keeping Eddie in his mouth as he rides it out, and he only leans back when Eddie releases his hold on his hair. Eddie’s brain is a pleasant staticky buzz, pleasure having trickled from his stomach down into his thighs, every muscle humming in the afterglow of his orgasm.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. _“Fuck,_ that was…”

Richie hums, dropping his cheek down onto Eddie’s knee. “Yeah.”

“You…” Eddie trails off, trying to work some fucking sense into his brain again, and he looks down at Richie’s face and— and he can’t see his dick from this angle. “You need…?”

Richie flushes again, licks his lips. “I— um,” he stammers, but the answer’s already written plain across his face. He gives a quick little nod. “Yeah. Yeah, please, Eds?”

“Hey, I got you,” Eddie says, tucking himself back into his underwear and not bothering with buttoning his pants back up as he slides off the couch and onto his knees. He threads his left hand through Richie’s hair — they’re gonna have to wash that _very_ thoroughly later — and wraps his right hand around Richie, getting him off with long, smooth strokes and some soft kisses against the column of his throat. “I got you. You were so fucking good for me, Rich, of course I’ve got you.”

It takes a little longer than usual, as it always does for Richie when it’s his second time in a row, but soon enough he’s coming undone in Eddie’s hand, shuddering through it and melting into Eddie’s arms with his head on his shoulder.

 _“Fuck_ me, Eds.”

Eddie kisses the side of his head, lightly scratches at his scalp. “Maybe later. Your dick might actually fall off if we try that now.”

Richie shakes with a silent laugh, but he doesn’t move, weighing heavy in Eddie’s arms. Eddie kisses his head again and reaches around him to pluck blindly at the knot in the tie until it unravels and falls to the floor, and Richie slowly and languidly pulls his arms forward and wraps them around Eddie’s waist with, apparently, no intent to move any time soon.

“Hey,” Eddie whispers. “We can’t sleep on the floor, Rich.”

Richie’s voice thrums along his collarbone. “Mm. Why not?”

“Our backs wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

“Mm.”

Eddie tips his head against the side of Richie’s. “Hey, come on. We need to get the jizz out of your hair. I’ll wash it for you and everything.”

Richie sighs, long and dramatic, and then agrees, “Mmkay.”

With another kiss in his objectively disgusting hair, Eddie murmurs, “I meant it, by the way. You did really good.”

“Yeah?”

Eddie nods, slowly stretching out his legs and helping Richie up to his feet. Richie almost stumbles on wobbly legs, but with the extra help he manages to stay upright.

“Now come on, your hair’s gonna get all gross and crusty.”

“Your fault,” Richie murmurs with a smile, the sleepy kind that pulls at his cheeks and crinkles his eyes, so Eddie pulls him down for a real kiss, full on the mouth and unhurried.

“Yeah, yeah, I couldn’t fucking help it, could I?” Eddie says, patting his ass and pointing him in the direction of the bathroom. “Go. I’ll be there in two seconds after I throw our laundry in the hamper.”

“Mm,” Richie says with a lazy shrug, and halfway across the room he shoots a look back over his shoulder. There’s an unmistakable note of hesitance in his voice when he asks, “Hey, we can, uh… We can do that again, right? You liked it?”

Eddie looks up at him, arms full with Richie’s dress shirt and pants and both of their belts and his own tie, and what he wants to say is _always, Rich, I always like it, and you coming like that just from fucking watching me was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, of course we can do that again, we can do that over and over and over again for the rest of our lives, as many times as you’ll let me._

And, for once, his brain-to-mouth filter at least meets him halfway.

He smiles.

“Always, Rich.”  
  



End file.
